Alieh, Rowshanak or Raeheleh are often at their window. Between the rice pilaf with lentils and the petunias, the veil and a pair of stockings, the husband, the children, the ancestors or the neighbors, they watch for what will come to consolidate or upset their habits. Over the seasons and generations of women floats on Like every afternoon a scent of strange and penetrating mystery. In light, powerful touches, a discreet but daring portrait of the Iranian woman emerges, sometimes at the edge of the fantastic. Through the simplicity and sobriety of his style, Zoyâ Pirzâd pinpoints the flight of time like a rare butterfly and with an incisive gaze foils the traps of passing life.
 Newspaper
 This is a surprise as we sometimes offer small publishing houses. Under a bright pink jacket speckled with white, we discover a little gem of simplicity, the short stories of a novelist unknown in France, Zoyâ Pirzâd. These are stories without history, windows on the intimacy of Iranian women, busy in the kitchen, or simply enjoying the flowering of a tree, the passing of time ...
 Zoyâ Pirzâd's words are essentially poetic. She does not denounce the archaism of the feminine condition in her country, but describes the eternity that passes, leaving a gold leaf on the daily life of these Iranian women. (Astrid Eliard - Le Figaro of February 15, 2007)
 Nothing is more elusive and volatile than the ordinary unfolding of days. A host of gestures, words, feelings, minimal movements in space or in existence escape both consciousness and memory. And just as much to literature. Until a glance a little sharper and more sensitive than the others stops with attention where we usually pass. Undoubtedly, the Iranian Zoyâ Pirzâd possesses such a look, and above all the very subtle, infinitely nuanced art of showing this invisible and banal reality without weighing on it, without judging it from above ...
 Zoyâ Pirzâd, who was born in 1952 and who, we are told, is (notably) the Persian translator of Alice in Wonderland, does not treat her characters with condescension or cynicism. His tenderness for them is not complacent or tearful either. She does not consider that the essential, or higher and noble values, escapes them. You have to salute her for even seeming to think the exact opposite. (Patrick Kéchichian - Le Monde, February 22, 2007)  --This text refers to the edition  Brooch.